Hard Candy

I brought an assortment of hard candy to work today. We have a shelf along ‘writers’ row’ upon which we deposit quasi-edible jetsam from our household pantries. Amazingly, no food, regardless of type or freshness ever stays on the counter more than one day. Today’s goodie selection reminded me of my many visits to an old neighbor’s house. Clorinda McCumber was in her 70s when I was five, and she had a coffee table situated between the couch and the TV that supported a huge, seemingly bottomless dish of hard candies. I’d walk next door whenever the mood struck and Clorinda would let me in without question. She had a color TV where ours was black and white, so I’d use that as an excuse to sit on their couch and pluck away at the congealed mound of petrified ribbon candy. Clorinda would be in the kitchen or her sewing room, so my secret candy binges were strictly between me and her perpetually-drowsy Basset Hound, Duke. By this point of the confection’s life cycle, it was futile trying to separate the individual candies, so I’d use the handle of the metal nutcracker from the mixed nut dish and quietly chip away at the sticky heap, sending razor-sharp white and red shards in all directions. Duke watched me from his pillow near the fireplace with never more than a hint of curiosity.

My family moved when I was six, but about a year later we visited Clorinda. I stood in the kitchen with my parents as the three adults chatted and I eventually glanced toward the living room. Duke was standing with his front paws on the coffee table and was licking at the mass of ribbon candy in a predator-like frenzy. I stared at him for a bit as the notion sunk in that this behavior was probably not new. My throat began to close up a little and as I cleared it, Duke turned his eyes toward me, but continued licking. We stared at each other for a moment or two, or at least as long as it took for both of us to feel comfortable with the fact that our little secret was as safe as ever.